


Which It’s the Envoi Now, Ain’t It?

by alcyone (Alcyone301)



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types
Genre: Advent Calendar 2016, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:25:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8907148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyone301/pseuds/alcyone
Summary: Summary: Christmas evening aboard Surprise, somewhere in the Indian Ocean, from the Captain’s steward’s POV. This is set on the same day as El Pessebre de Nadal and Ophelia’s Début and follows on directly from the latter, but there is no need to have read either of them.Many thanks to my heroic betas, alltoseek and feroxargentea, who together helped me translate my English into that of Preserved Killick, corrected errors and made many helpful suggestions. The title is alltoseek Killick’s perfect rendition of the working title, Envoi.





	

_'... we might try the Corelli, and then perhaps have an early supper and let Killick get some sleep.’_

\--=ooOoo=--

Standing in the doorway of the small cuddy that served as his galley, Killick snorted and said, with a nod in the direction of the stern cabin, ‘Ain’t much more tweedly-tweedly and then we can serve ‘em and be off, thank God.' Pointing at the chafing dish with his chin, he said to his mate, 'Just turn up the wick under that there cheese, will you? We got about ‘alf a glass afore they call for us. Early supper, they call it,' he added, 'they been at it for hours.' He picked up a broad-bladed knife, worn to a streak at the tip. 

Grimble, the steward's mate, turned from the mortar full of nut meats he had been breaking up and did as he was bidden, saying, 'How do you know, then?' 

'Because I've ‘eard that same blessed piece more times than you've had hot dinners, ain't I? You get on with it. Finish up them nuts and maybe I’ll let you do the beans for the second pot of coffee.'

Grimble grinned and said, 'I'm getting that good at it?'

'You got a lot to learn, youngster, 's more to fixing food than carrying trays and pounding things to smithereens. And more to looking after them in the great cabin than you'd guess.' 

Killick set about turning the remains of the fine brace of ducks from dinner into salad, shredding the meat, chopping walnuts and julienning a few wizened apples. He whipped three egg yolks with mustard powder, Valletta oil and vinegar in an empty jar that had once contained Sophie Aubrey's marmalade, and added the creamy result to the duck and its trimmings.

The cheese had just started bubbling nicely and the salad was resting in a gleaming silver bowl, covered with a neatly folded napkin, when the music came to a peaceful and not unexpected end, followed in a few moments by the sonorous voice of the Captain, calling 'Killick! Killick there, light along the cheese.' 

'Which it's coming, ain't it?' Killick howled from the doorway. ‘Here, bring the salad and the decanters, and look sharp. No, no, ain't you got no sense, putting your great greasy thumb on the silver?' 

Inside the stern cabin, Killick hissed at Grimble, 'Put them down, right down! Right, you can start cleaning up in the galley, you can scarper once it's decent.' 

Seated at the table, Captain Aubrey looked up eagerly, as he unfailingly did, as his usual supper arrived, and he raised an enquiring eyebrow when Killick placed the salad bowl before him. 'Why, it's more duck, splendid! I am surprised any survived dinner.' The steward made a half-hearted gesture to suggest he might fill their plates, prompting Jack's 'Thank you Killick, we will take care of ourselves, and a merry Christmas night to you.' 

Stephen, distractedly frowning at a sheet of music, looked up and murmured _'Nollaig shona dhuit.'_

'Which I got a pot o' coffee to bring yet. Sir,' he replied, grumbling as he left. 'Not as if you'd let me go without fetching your coffee.'

 

Returning to the cuddy, he waved dismissal at Grimble. With a put-upon sigh, he set the breakfast oatmeal on to soak, and began grinding coffee beans, absently humming, a sweet and familiar melody. A chair scraped at the far end of the passage; he cocked his head at the cabin for a moment, then started the coffee brewing. In the cabin, Jack acknowledged the coffee with a nod, a significant look at the door, and a ludicrous shooing gesture; Killick gathered the dishes and left, closing the door with a moderate bang.

Back in the cuddy, he washed the plates and spent a serene half glass or so lovingly polishing the silver, wrapping it in felt and stowing it in the cuddy’s sole locker. Retrieving his huswif and a small stack of clothes from the same locker, he sat down under the lantern to do his mending. For a little room quite filled with a man who habitually grumbled to himself and could usually be heard breathing through a closed door, the cuddy was remarkably quiet. The ship around him spoke, however; he could hear the creak of the rigging, a rhythmic chorus of soft groans as Surprise gently pitched, and the cycle of 'All's well' from the lookouts on deck, repeated every glass. 

After a while he turned the lantern so that it was shaded from the door to the passage, that he now left open. A finger of light from the cabin shone beneath its door. When that light dimmed to near-invisibility, he finished the shirt cuff he was turning, picked up a basket from behind the door, pulled on a light jacket and went on deck. 

The night was warm enough, but after the close heat of the cuddy it seemed cool, and refreshing. Killick picked his way past the several men of the watch below stretched out on the forecastle to enjoy the elbow room and the cooler, far sweeter ambiance than that on the gundeck. An anomalous rope was tied to the foremast shrouds, a gentle arc reaching upward into the dark; he untied it, whipped a few turns around the basket and tugged it twice, watching as it rose out of sight. He followed it at a comfortable pace, climbing into the top, Bonden giving him a hand over the edge; they sat on two of the half-dozen neat bundles of sails.

In response to a questioning look from the steward, the cox'n pointed his thumb at the crosstrees. 'He's a good lad, he'll do his watching out to sea like he should. All quiet below?' 

'As the grave. They stowed the instruments and finished supper afore I was done cleaning up, and lights out after no more’n a couple more bells.' 

'Took long enough,' Bonden said, mildly. 

There was an array of unusual packets in the top, and Bonden had already laid out a worn canvas square, upon which were placed a pair of pewter mugs and a few wooden plates, some bowls and an open half-bottle of madeira. 

'So, a good day?' 

Killick nodded. 'Not bad for a Christmas an’ a Sunday. Except for the sermon, maybe.' Bonden spluttered, then chuckled, and the steward joined him. 

'Hush, what's in that bottle?' Killick asked, taking a mouthful. 'From the gunroom', he tsked. Bonden shrugged. Another mouthful, and he put the mug down with a disdainful grimace. 'Lord they two do talk. On and on, about the troubles they got in as kiddies, places they went, things you couldn’t scarcely credit. And every little story ‘ad to have its own song. I could of hatched the breakfast eggs afore they once thought of toasted cheese.'

'Stories, aye? Give us a tale, then.’

Kilkick busied himself removing his plunder from the basket - duck salad, a pair of mutton chops from dinner, sliced cheese coated in crushed hazelnuts, and more - and laid it all out on the canvas with a somewhat smug air. Eventually he said, 'Well it don't amount to much, and I couldn't hear every word, in course.' Bonden nodded, acknowledging the boundary thus indicated. 'They ain't that different for all the doctor’s foreign. Orphans, well the captain as good as. Going from pillar to post.'

'Well, me too,' Bonden interjected, 'but I got cousins, we stayed put.’

'I'd wish I was orphaned, only that's wicked. Them two ain’t short o’ family, they just ain’t got parents, and they both ran away to sea, seemingly.'

‘Huh. Funny, one turns out a famous sailor and fighting captain, and the other…’ he paused.

‘...don’t,’ Killick supplied.

They ate in silence for a while, with occasional wordless sounds of pleasure or surprise. Killick opened his first bottle and poured them both a mug. 

'This ain’t bad, Killick.' 

'Which it wouldn’t be, it's that red seal priorato. Never took a whole bottle away afore. I got some gear masher, too, comes from the doctor's own vineyard. You brought any rum for afters?' 

'Course I ‘ave, what do you take me for?' Bonden peered into the cloudless, spangled sky, noting the lookout's position. 'Not a bad day at all. Light duty, hot dinner and extra grog, not as good as all this, in course, but not bad. And all that music on deck, John Foley and them flutes, and the Captain and the doctor fiddling for the dance, too. Right grand, that was.' 

'They was playing like a pair of Christians,' Killick agreed, '’til they went back to their usual turns, anyways.'

'I thought you liked it?'

'Nah, dreary muck, that, most of it. Not so bad, tonight, though. Lots of good tunes, a body could dance to ‘em, or in course sing like they did.’

Bonden snickered. 

'What?' 

'They sang?' 

'What of it? They do, now and then. Tonight ain’t that much different.'

'How do you bear it?' 

The friends shared a knowing laugh. 

'Captain's got a good voice and it’s loud enough you don't ‘ave to hear the doctor that much,' said the steward. 

The plates were cleaned of all but bones and a few scraps, and a comfortable silence followed.

After a while, Bonden rolled his shoulders and yawned. 'Aye, we've had many a worse Christmas. Remember the ‘orrible old Leopard? Ain’t going to forget that one this side o’ Paradise.’ And they discussed that perilous, cold, hungry, painful time with all the fondness men have for perils long past. 

Eventually Killick rose and bundled the scant remains of their unsanctioned supper into the canvas cloth, tied it to the free rope and let it down to the deck. The two crewmen kipping closest to the foot of the foremast responded by rolling over and returning to sleep, uninterested or perhaps too wise to take note of Mr Killick's doings. 

In the top, the old friends sat on, communing silently. Time passed, marked by the distant ting-ting of the ship's bell. After one or two of these, Killick stood up with a sigh. Bonden, seated still on the sails, offered his hand. 'Well, a happy Christmas to you, Preserved Killick.'

'And to you, Barrett Bonden, and many more,' and with that Killick descended via a backstay, leaving Bonden contemplating the stars. 

Returning to the stern cabin, dimly lit by a small candle lantern half-hidden between the mounted barometer and Jack's own chronometer, Killick tidied away the remains of the coffee, picked up some walnut shells, a cork, two stray sheets of music and the doctor's neckcloth from the deck, and made for his cuddy. There he quickly disposed of the debris from the suppers aloft and astern. Dousing his lantern, he walked out, pausing by the door of the sleeping-cabin. The Captain's resounding snores had been audible from the great cabin and the cuddy, but it was more difficult to discern the Doctor's sleeping wheeze. He made it out, however, with his ear to the door, and with a private smile, which would have startled his two charges had they seen it, he made his way to his own well-earned rest.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) The Corelli is the Concerto Grosso in G minor, Op.6, no.8, “Fatto per la notte di Natale” aka "Christmas Concerto" (Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713); the sweet and familiar melody Killick hums is the Pastorale from the fifth movement.  
>   
> (2) Killick’s mate Grimble in this story is not the canon Grimble, a former butcher, skilled at making sausages. My mistake; I made him young and a bit gormless before I thought to check, and then it was too late.
> 
> (3) _Nollaig shona dhuit_ : A happy Christmas to you.
> 
> (4) The bottle of Priorat: And here Jack and Stephen thought it was all gone. Tsk, Killick.


End file.
